


Fear

by madluvs



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Horror, Mystery, Other, Psychological Horror, Teratophilia, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-01 03:20:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12147528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madluvs/pseuds/madluvs
Summary: A troubled FBI special agent is sent to investigate the unusual missing persons cases in Derry, Maine. Their case files speak of the great unknown, of fear, ofIt.Based on the lore & characters established in the IT movie (2017).





	1. Case 091986 Entry 1

When they first showed me the files, thick, heavy and slammed on my desk with a sneer, I was hesitant to open them. Unremarkable, and slightly ravaged, I understood that these aged, scuffed, coffee stained folders had been forced my way in form of punishment, for the pushing, the pressing _and prying_ … To show their displeasure following my disciplinary, they were shipping me off on a wild goose chase, an unsolved case – one I could see from it’s layers of dust and creases – had been untouched for quite some time. With cases like these, they weren’t expecting solutions or closure from me, they merely served as good as paid suspension and ensured my lengthy absence as they discussed what to do with me. I didn’t realise then, just how disturbing it would be, I don’t think even _they_ knew the extent of **it** , of what kind of monstrosity they were sending me off to uncover. No one could possibly have predicted the danger that was waiting for me, there in the small town of Derry, Maine.

By the time I had reached said destination, I had already repeatedly read through the files, spent long and lonely nights at cheap, dirty motels, sleepless, drinking and squinting through the dark, absorbing the many oddities therein. Missing cases – _in the hundreds_ – of children lost, traces of them rarely found, their bodies never recovered. Statements from parents, teachers, friends, accounts of children prior to their disappearance, talking of nightmares, of stalkers, of being approached by a **stranger** . All of which led to – like the searches led to find the children – nothing. Dead ends. Every single missing persons had been under the age of eighteen* all specifically taken, abducted, _disappeared_ from their hometown, and the further from Derry, the less and less abnormal these statistics became. Every twenty seven years, a cycle of child abduction.

* _Note_ : _There were rises during these times, of missing adults also – and though these are clearly unusual spikes of missing cases for such a small demographic, did not range even closely to the substantial figures for those nearing the ages, or already having reached, puberty._

Now, I have dealt with unusual before, the strange, the weird, it came as part and parcel of working in the FBI, and more specifically, a lesser known department within it’s Science and Technology division. Though I am no scientist, and the little familiarity I have with technology depends on the task at hand, whatever cellphone they grant me, to whatever bugs they choose to place on my person, I am no engineer, hacker or code-breaker. My skills are more suited, more applicable, to that of a detective, in it’s simplest form, that was my job description. The branch in which I have dedicated a little over a decade, [ **xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxinformationwithheldxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx** ] so, understandably, I am no **stranger** to the surreal, the unbelievable, the inconceivable, even without access to all of their secrets (through no lack of _trying_ .) What I’ve come to learn, in all my years with [ **xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx** ], _Dept. Science and Technology. Federal Bureau of Investigation._ the 99.9% of all strangeness becomes explicitly, undeniably explainable with determination. What I did not know, at arrival of this plain and seemingly pleasant, sunny town, this case would be of the _other_ 0.01 percent. And I could not have come prepared for _that_.

As I approached the quaint town center, having driven consistently for two hours since my last coffee stop, I mounted the curb outside the cheerful cafe recommended to me. A cartoony, crayon sun smiled at me from the welcome blackboard, as I crept alongside the curb, and clambered from my car. I had already called Derry’s police department ahead of time, making them aware of my arrival and was promptly told ( _along with the name of said cafe_ ) I wouldn’t be eating alone. I found the sheriff already bunched up in a booth, nursing a large mug, he looked as impressed as I felt, which is to say – _not at all._

“Took your time,” he said, voice as gruff as his outward appearance.

“10 am,” I gently assured him, noting the dark circles beneath his eyes, the uneven stubble on his square jaw. I ordered a coffee of my own, _lots of milk, four sugars_ , then took a seat opposite.

“No–sorry–” His voice warbled now that we sat eye to eye, a hand wound through untidy waves of hair. “I didn’t mean–”

I’ve worked with difficult cops, deranged cops, corrupt cops… The sheriff was determined, turned desperate, thin threads of bloodshot riddled the whites of his eyes. He was tired, _concerned_ and confused. He sighed, “I wondered when they’d finally send for the feds.”

Considering the alarming statistics, I had also found this somewhat surprising, but I said nothing, taking small sips from my sweet coffee. With the twenty seven years between each disappearance _en masse_ , the Bureau had much bigger things to contend with. All they were willing to offer this little town was my own investigation, what with me teetering on the likely threat of sacking. Had I not said _I’d seen what I’d seen_ back at the boardroom, they may have never sent someone packing to Derry. I held my tongue and savoured the coffee some more.

“Special Agent [ **xxxxxxxxxx** ]. Pleasure.” I offered my hand, and he briefly took it, returning a small crack of a smile. His eyes softened, his shoulders sagged. It looked an awful lot like _relief_.

He told me his name (for protective purposes I will refer to him only as _sheriff_ ) introductions were bland, _mandatory_ , and it didn’t take long for conversation to sway in the favour of the case. I had questions (also mandatory) to present to the sheriff in that cramped cafe. Even then, even with the brief and casual queries over breakfast, I noted how he was hesitant to delve into any great detail of **it** , fondling the yolk with the end of his fork. That since being instated, there had been more recent disappearances* he had personally dealt with. Dealt with, sleepless, with drink, with creeping desperation. He went on to explain the preventatives and precautions taken by the police, of the 7pm curfew for children. What piqued my interest immediately, however, was the nervously announced mention of body parts he and his men had found, that were being kept on ice over at the station.

_* See files: George Elmer Denbrough. Betty Ripsom. Patrick Hockstetter._

“I would like to see those.” I leaned forward and the sheriff had flinched. My eagerness had clearly alarmed him.

“We can arrange for a --”

“Oh, no. _Now_ . If you wouldn’t mind.”  


After finishing our meals, I followed closely behind the police vehicle on route to the station. No matter how the sheriff had been hesitant, or alarmed, he did not once resist my requests. He had called ahead for a mortician to meet us, and for coffee, _lots of milk, four sugars._ Though there had been _mention_ of lingering evidence, of fingers, of blood (even a tongue) in the files thrown my way by the FBI, these were all present in statements and transcribed from interviews and reports, not once did they provide photographs of proof. Needless to say, I was curious to see what they were holding down at Derry’s station. I am not a morbid person, I empathised and understood the aversion to such unpleasantness, but evidence is evidence -- and I was more than eager to get to work on this increasingly unique case. Fortunately, for the people of Derry, I had very little aversion left in me.

 

The sheriff spent little to no time introducing me to his unit, one look at the badge and they avoided any such niceties or handshakes. I was unsure whether this was due to the suit and the Bureau, or just down to the simple fact I was a **stranger** invading and investigating _their_ town. I was met with suspicion and mutterings, which was, as always is, completely and utterly expected. “I’ll need access to all your files and reports, I hope this won’t be a problem,” I say, for the added _sting_. The sheriff went on to assure me, following gruff (but genuine) apologies, rest assured everything they had would be at my disposal.

 

The mortuary was clean and meticulously maintained, and _empty_ \-- exceptionally odd, even for a town like Derry, there would be -- _should be_ \-- at least one corpse occupying a fridge, awaiting identification, furthering evidence or trial. For a moment, I stilled at the sight of this. Strange, isn’t it, to think an empty morgue was what I found to be unnerving? But I could safely say, in all my time, I had never _once_ walked into a morgue, to see all the fridge doors open, no tags, no autopsies... Not a single cadaver laid back in those frozen shelves. The absence of death **it** self had me somewhat disturbed.

 

“Agent [ **xxxxxxxxxx** ], the evidence you asked for.”

 

The mortician, a crumpled and elderly man, guided us through to the single metal autopsy table, where a hand and arm (torn at the elbow), the tip of a finger, a cheek with it’s blue and bloated bottom lip, rested upon the unrolled sheet of plastic. _Clarity_ . What had disturbed me about the mortuary, turned to curiosity when presented with the pieces left from these _missing cases_. Of which, as far as I understood from this point onward, were not missing cases at all.

 

“Have you been able to identify who these belong to? The Denbrough boy?”

 

“No,” the mortician spoke gravely of this, “and these do not belong to the same person.”

 

“Interesting. Any problems with radical or irregular religious groups here in Derry?” I asked.

 

“What? _No_ , none -- this is a good Christian town,” the sheriff struggled to hide his offense at my simple question. I shrugged.

 

“Any _cult_ activity, past or present, suspected Sheriff?”

 

“What? _No!_ ”

 

“Gloves.”

 

“ _What?!_ ”

 

“Gloves, please,” I pointed at the box to the sheriff’s left,  “pass me the gloves.”

 

I handled them carefully, each fleshy thing, the cheek-and-lip first, noting the tearing of the tissue, the ripped and ragged edges. The same roughly strewn muscle and gristle, what was left of the fingertip, the same as the arm stripped and shredded at the elbow, gnawed and chewed in places, down to the bone.

 

“Coyotes… Maybe bears…” The mortician offered blankly, reading my mind and following my gaze.

 

I said nothing, thoughts better kept to themselves as I surveyed the little evidence left on display. I was definite in that no knife had been used. Instead, these morbid morsels had been torn away at, with teeth. Sharp incisors having ravaged at the softer parts. Moving onto the hand and forearm, pulled right from the elbow, mottled and rubbery, fragments of bone had been chipped from the marrow and splintered the ruined skin. It was here that I found it -- wedged deep, having been previously mistaken for a shard of bone, like the rest -- I drew with tweezers, driven into the drying meat, a long flat arrowhead of a stark white tooth. I prized it from the fraying tissue, and held it to the light.

 

“Christ,” the sheriff uttered, closing in to assist, plastic bag at the ready to retain this new found evidence. His eyes were wide with uncertainty.

 

“Bear?” I asked, an eyebrow quipped.

 

The mortician was unsteady on his feet, and stumbling more now than he had been as we entered. “I've never -- seen anything like this!”

 

Surprisingly enough, neither had I. A pin prick, serrated, it was unlike any I’d seen prior in corpses left exposed to the elements. Long like a dogtooth, razor sharp as a shark’s. Satisfied with the find, I smiled at my paling counterparts, securing and sealing the tooth in the bag. Curiouser and curiouser. “This needs identifying. I'd like to know what's been eating our evidence.” If we could determine the wildlife, it would make it easier to predict and pinpoint likely locations of other bodies… or parts of, at least.

 

“It's a start!” Despite the nervous flitting of his eyes, the sheriff smiled too. I believed, even then, he wanted to end the terrible cycle that terrorised the town.

 

“So,” my hands clasped together, “who's for lunch?”

 

We left the mortician back at the station and headed south, the sheriff led me, kindly, to his local diner -- ordered nothing for himself, stating awkwardly that he just wasn't hungry. I, however, was famished. I'd been on the road for hours prior to arriving in Derry, I’d spent several days on the road, stopping off only to sleep, and occasionally to eat. It had been made clear to me the division had wanted me gone as soon as possible, so I'd packed my things and fled the state without question. I had spent unpleasant nights at gnarly motels, face buried in case folders, hoping to bury my anxiety with endless exhaustion.

 

“I'd advise that more units are put on patrol after curfew,” I suggested, stuffing my face shamelessly with pancakes. “Tomorrow I’d like to see the locations where you found the remains, if you wouldn't mind. And the Denbrough family? I'd like to speak with them also.”

 

The sheriff nodded, “of course.” He shuffled in his seat, and spoke in a hushed tone, leaning forward, fists clasped. “Be prepared -- people are scared, Agent [ **xxxxxxxxxx** ]. My father dealt with **it** back when he was a cop, and then my grandfather before him...” He swallowed hard. “And when little George Denbrough went missing, I knew it was my turn.”

 

I loaded my second stack of pancakes with maple syrup and all the while he stared at me, fascinated. “That's why I'm here, Sheriff,” I offered up another signature smile of reassurance, “we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

 

“That's what I'm afraid of most, Agent [ **xxxxxxxxxx]**.”

 

I spent the rest of the afternoon alone, searching for a semi-permanent place for my stay. I settled for a quaint motel just outside the town center. The room on offer, though small, faced the thick neck of the river, with it’s high bank at the lip of woodland. Peaceful, the water petered against stone, ran smoothly through the roots, birds chirped and crickets chattered -- such a long way from the city, I appreciated nature's calming effect on the soul. And after unpacking, though early, fell quickly asleep at my files, strewn on the bed, a mess I lost to, and dreamlessly writhed within.

 

I awoke in the late hours, to the sound of water rushing through the reeds, to the endless clicking of insects. Unfamiliar with my setting, on the waking end of slumber, I groped amongst the covers, felt the many crumpled sheets of paper, sat up, groaning -- fell immediately silent and still. Two eyes stared back at me through the darkness. From across the room, crouched by the nightstand, two glinting eyes were fixed, unblinking, on my own. My breath swelled in my lungs, my sleepy brain struggled to process **it**. I didn't blink and neither did they. A stalemate. I didn't dare breathe save I disturbed it -- and without even comprehending, truly processing what sat before me, I felt inexplicable dread for what it was capable of.

 

I’d like to clarify that my reactions to this vision were somewhat subdued -- despite the fear that had me gripping the quilt, and glaring into the darkness, skin tingling, mouth drying. This wasn't the first waking nightmare I had suffered. Ever since _the incident_ I witnessed, that had had me dragged into the boardroom for investigation, had me sent suddenly, disgraced all the way to Derry while they determined my future with the FBI, I had been dreaming and waking to all manner of horrors. The eyes at my nightstand were strange, but I'd been experiencing all manner of strange for some time.

 

A door slamming in the distance startled me, distracted **it** . I jolted, and the eyes flickered, shone once then vanished to endless blackness. Lunging for the light, panting and pawing for my pistol, I swung with the barrel raised, finger poised on the trigger. I laughed, one breathless sound, faced with only the expected, no eyes save for the shining lenses of my spectacles discarded on the bedside table. Exactly where my mirage had peered from. “ _Fuck._ ”

  
I rummaged for my pills, [ **xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx** ] prescribed to me by the psyche immediately after my evaluation. Given to me to ease my anxiety, quell the constant pang of fear. What I had witnessed on my previous case had left me shaken to my core. The recommended dose is two, I took six to _be sure._ I write this because my mind had been addled ever since _the incident._  I know what I saw was true back then, as it is now. _Everything written is as I have witnessed._ Always looking over my shoulder, expecting to be tailed by an unlicensed vehicle, expecting my phone lines, light bulbs to be bugged. If I hadn't been so tired, I'd have stripped the motel room top and bottom, just to _be sure_ . I'd left motels in similar states all the way up to Derry, Maine. If I'd known then, what I know now of this place, I'd have driven my car as far as it's screeching engine would take me --  I'd have never stepped over **it’s** threshold, what sat waiting patiently, in the days, the weeks to come.


	2. Case 091986 Entry 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything written is as I have witnessed. [ **xxxxxxxxx** ]

8AM sharp and the sheriff was perched on the bonnet of his police car, two takeout coffees steaming either side of him. He offered, through a mouthful, a tray of sugar donuts, squinting through the early sunlight, a hand raised to block the glare. Crossing the freshly cut lawn, I was met with it’s sharp scent, a welcome and waking goodmorning. My shoes sank in the damp earth of the motel lawn, and my struggle to retrieve them had him smiling warmly my way. Whereas I hid signs of stress through meticulous dress-sense, being impeccably prepared and well-presented, he wore  _ dishevelled  _ with a devilish charm. “I'm impressed Sheriff, you deliver!” I stated, swiping a cardboard cup and donut for myself. Birds sang loudly from the trees, a gentle breeze swayed their branches, the world felt fresh and fiercely alive.

“Sleep well, Agent [ **xxxxxxxxxx** ]?” He asked. I could see he was tired, as I was tired. As tired as only the nature of this work can wear at you. I felt I hadn't slept  _ in weeks. _

“Like a baby. Shall we?” I hovered at the passenger door, donut devoured, I had never been one to dawdle. It would take another lifetime to retrain the city  _ rush _ out of me. “Wouldn't want to waste the day, as nice as it is. I'd like to start with the location where your men found our  _ delightful _ evidence. If you wouldn't mind.”

“Ab-so- _ lutely _ ,” he hopped from the bumper, scoffing down what he could before taking a seat at the wheel. From his slow pace, unsteady steps, I could tell he was a  **stranger** to an immediate start. As much as this had strained him at first, he didn't once, in all the time, complain of it. “We’ll take the road following the river, got us some good views on the way.”

And he was right. Driving through Derry, windows rolled down, I witnessed it lush with life. Trees grew taller, wider. Grass, ferns and all manner of shrubbery passed by in a brilliantly green haze. The natural world thrived on the edges of town, teemed with flowers in bloom, wildlife flitted and fled the roadside as we drifted on through. So unbelievably pretty, it drew me in -- could draw anyone in. It  _ almost _ made you forget, momentarily, the so many gone missing. The dark history Derry harboured. Only, I always had  _ trouble  _ forgetting.

“How long you worked for the FBI?” the sheriff piped up. “Or, if you tell me, you have to kill me? Is that how it goes?”

I laughed. A small and strange sensation, I realised then, I hadn't laughed  _ for months _ . “Best not test it.”

“Like that is it? No stories, no secrets to tell?”

I shook my head, gazed out at the blurring scenery. “You wouldn't want to know,” and though I smiled, the statement was true. Everyone thinks they want to know, but trust me, you don't. Sometimes,  _ worst of all _ , you have to live with the consequence, the burden, of knowing.

“ _ There  _ we go--” the sheriff continued distractedly. “We’ll need to take the footpaths from here on out--”, pulling his vehicle into the small section of spaces reserved for those wanting to venture the scenic trails. Secluded, serene, the sun prickled my skin as we left the car, parked to the side and shaded by trees. The trail was short and the sheriff was silent, we met once again with the trickling stream. I pulled a smoke from it’s box, stood at the bank, surveyed as he paced back and forth, stamping down the high grasses.

“This is where we found them,” he pointed to the unsuspecting, unremarkable low trench of the river. “Just chewed up and discarded by scavenging animals, my guess.” I noticed him swallow hard.

_ “ _ I see.”

I turned to the flow of the water, it's source, the wide rusted ring of the sewer mouth. A crawl space buried deep, down into the rancid, endless dark. The blue-green bloat of the lips (what had been left of the face) had been clear indication of swelling from water, having stagnated and ballooned by  **it.** “Where does it lead?”

The sheriff looked on, “Sewer systems, we checked what we could of them and found nothing.”

“What you could?” I repeated, if only to clarify.

“Derry sits on old sewer lines, old as  _ hell _ , some of those pipes are no longer accessible, some are unstable...” He spoke frankly on the subject, but it all sounded, if just a little, like excuses. I was suspicious by nature, noted the quiet quiver of nerves in his voice. “It's dangerous, derelict, for the most part. When we didn't uncover anything down there, we didn't go back.”

I nodded. I wasn't there to scrutinise their investigation. I felt it hardly appropriate considering my only reason for being on their case was that I was under much scrutiny from the FBI myself. Still, I could sense their avoidance. The mortician at the station had been stumbling as I handled the evidence, the sheriff was vague and secretive.  _ Something  _ had these men on edge -- I recognised it instantly, the same subtle glances over their shoulders, the same shaking at certain words, the same trembling fingers hidden in clamped fists, tired eyes, exhausted souls. I had suffered the same and I thought, foolishly, that I could spare them  **it** .

“Send for a dog unit to further search this area, see if we can find anything else that may have been left behind.”

The sheriff smiled, eyes crinkling in the sunlight. “Done.”

“I'd like to speak with the Denbrough family, if possible.”

Just as the sheriff hadn't complained about the early start, he never grumbled despite me dragging him left, right and centre either. All the darting to and from, the chase of the case, he complied. He drove us back to the Denbrough home after our brief browse at the stream, seemed fascinated and assured at my involvement in Derry. He knocked on the door and introduced me, somewhat proudly, to Mr and Mrs Denbrough. An obviously  _ crushed,  _ shrunken couple appeared at the door to answer, I could see the water gather in the corners of their eyes. The grim reminder of the days following their son’s disappearance, police banging on the wood, the bearers of bad, the  _ worst,  _ of news.

Mrs Denbrough’s gaze lingered at the lapel of my jacket, spotting my badge. “FBI?” She asked breathlessly.

“Agent [ **xxxxxxxxx** ]. Pleasure.” We briefly shook hands, crossing the threshold and into their humble abode. Mr Denbrough seemed a little less than  _ impressed _ , glaring as we entered the living room, directed by his wife to take a seat on their small sofa.

“Special Agent [ **xxxxxxxxxx** ] is here to help us with Derry’s recent disappearances. We would like to ask you some questions, if we may?”

“Coffee?” Mrs Denbrough didn't wait for our answer, hurried off to the kitchen, loudly played with the percolator, and sought privacy, to cry, I suspect.

“Why are you here Sheriff?” Mr Denbrough’s voice was tight, averting my eyeline entirely. He shifted into an uncomfortable seated position, on the edge of the single, tired armchair. Hands winding tight and trembling. “Georgie* is dead.”

The certainty in his voice, the absoluteness of his confirmation, I stared intently despite his desperate and obvious need to avoid my very existence in the room. Understandable. These were, of course, grieving parents -- and my presence in their home brought back to them the year of utter, indescribable misery. I could see by the way their faces had paled in the doorway, the disappearance of their youngest child haunted their hallways, hollowed them, left them holed in with the ghost of his memory. They’d had their house invaded before, by the sheriff and others, they’d extinguished all options, questions answered time and time again, and as the months had passed, their hope of ever seeing their little boy had been dashed to the floor like a hard, heavy downpour and down, down into the drain.

_ *Notes: George Elmer Denbrough. Missing. Investigation states that he was ‘last seen with his head down a flood drain’ by an eyewitness. Was later believed to have been retrieving a paper boat when playing in the bad weather. Never returned to his home. Theory is Denbrough was ‘swept down and into the  _ _ sewers _ _ by high and heavy rainfall.’ _

_ No trace has yet to be found. I believe him to be the first of this 27 year cycle of disappearances. How was he able to fit down there? Most certainly dead by now, but no trace? Still? No trace? _

I agreed with Mr Denbrough, but silently, and to myself. Their little Georgie was most certainly lost to them, in the most final and infinite of ways to be lost. I’d been on many missing cases prior to this one, and had witnessed the most miraculous recoveries of people found even after  _ years _ of absence. This was not one of those cases. I knew, even then, before everything that followed  **it** , George Denbrough was gone, just as his father knew, and grieved, and suffered for knowing.

“The disappearance of your son is not to be treated as a singular incident,” I spoke gently, and his head whipped to face me, a hidden fury. “I believe the disappearance of your son, and others, are all connected. I have the belief that your son, last year, was the first in this particular cycle. That these disappearances will continue unless we solve this, as quickly as we can.”

Mr Denbrough blinked, as though I’d spoken out of term, or spoken something incomprehensible. Perhaps I had both. His hands continued to wind nervously in his lap. “ _ What? _ ” He looked to the sheriff, searching for some form of explanation, though my meaning had been clear. I had been quick to realise, with the sheriff, with the mortician, other men at the station, and now Mr Denbrough, the people of Derry did not like to be cornered with the facts of this case. When given the details, you give them no choice but to confront  **it** .

“You are aware of the many missing cases here in your hometown. I believe them to be linked, and linked to similar events some 27 years ago, and linked to other such occurrences 27 years before that. There is a cycle, Mr Denbrough. More children will go missing unless we find the reason for this, and stop  **it** .”

Mrs Denbrough approached, lower lip wavering as she offered two coffees, swirling to the point of spilling, in her shaking hands. “Sheriff… Agent [ **xxxxxxxxx** ]...” Both of us jumped to take the drinks save they soak our thighs.

“You really think what happened to Georgie is connected to something that happened  _ 54 years ago _ ?” Mr Denbrough scoffed.

“ _ 270  _ years** in fact, I have calculated 10 cycles of this nature.” I felt the room shift at my announcement of this, both skeptical, suspicious, and altogether silent. The sheriff eyed the room from the rim of his cup.

_ **Notes: The files given to me by the FBI, what they lacked in evidence and photographs, were made up with a solid and extensive history of Derry’s depressing, dark past. It was easy to make connections with the many dates spanning some 200 years. Of unexplained and tragic events cropping up every 27. I had read and reread these accounts, of newspaper articles, stories, hand me down histories -- and I’d been sent to Derry at the precipice of the 11th cycle, George Denbrough the catalyst, of that I am sure. _

“This is ridiculous --” Mr Denbrough stood abruptly, his wife wilting into the wallpaper. “Georgie is dead, he fell down the fuckin’ drain! I’ve never heard such hokum  _ bullshit _ in all my life! You’re  _ mad _ \-- and that’s who they’ve sent us Sheriff, a damn lunatic!”

I ignored his accusatory finger-pointing and turned my attention to Mrs Denbrough inhabiting the shadows instead, “may I see the rest of your house?”

_ Much obliged. _ Mrs Denbrough had been quick to agree, leaving both her husband and the sheriff to talk amongst themselves in the living room, the sheriff with his reassuring tone, and Mr Denbrough to deal with his unending anger and grief.

She played host with their modest abode, stumbling on her words through each hurried tour of their rooms. Smiling the most forceful smile at my presence in their private things. It was as expected for a family of four. Money was tight, expenses were sparse, but photo-frames were full and the love was visible in each, tangible even -- in the handmade toys, to the carefully preserved room of their youngest boy. Dust hadn’t been given a chance to settle, pillows ritually plumped and corners of the bed sheets tucked tightly. The circus wallpaper had been bleached by the sun, legos half-built still littered the carpet. It was as though he’d walked out, and we expected him to walk back in any moment to complete his imaginary projects. George Denbrough was certainly dead, but  **it** had killed both Mr and Mrs Denbrough in other, far crueller ways.

“He was… the sweetest boy,” she stood, sniffling at the entrance to the bedroom, cautiously eyeing my every movement.

I would not, did not, disturb that place. A room of remembrance, infinite love turned solemn, bitter and difficult to swallow. I hadn’t any children of my own, career-headed I had dived into, and given, 12 years of my dedicated service to the Bureau. I hadn't contacted any member of my family in just as long. Couldn't remember the voice of my mother. A life sworn to secrecy changes you. Forever. That isn't to say I lack compassion. People often think that without children, you cannot possibly know the sheer uncontrollable, unrelenting loss without having had it first. But I had  _ lost _ too, and had been mourning a loss ever since  _ the incident _ , and I wished so much in that moment, for a shrine of my own, like George Denbrough’s bedroom, to grieve in. Both of us sought closure in that tiny room, decorated with colourless circus tent tops. I turned to the tearful mother and asked, simply “let's get some air shall we?”

Mrs Denbrough took me through the kitchen and out the side door, where we lingered quietly by the open shutter of their garage. I lit up a smoke. “My husband’s work space,” she explained as I inched into the premise and surveyed the equipment inside. A heavy duty sander rested on a heavy duty desk. Rolls of maps were kept beside, with all manner of measuring tools, pencils, pens and paper. My feet knocked against a metal tray, splashing my shoes with stagnating water, filled to the brim. A toy soldier bobbed in the tiny waves as it shunted on the concrete. A label, ruined by the mossy water barely readable  THE BARRENS .

“I am so sorry Agent [ **xxxxxxxxxx** ],” she started instantly, panicked at what I had disturbed and wetted my footwear with. “I asked Billy to put this away  _ ages ago _ \--” She shook her head, flustered. “What a mess.”

“It's fine, Mrs Denbrough, I can assure you I have stepped in worse in my time.” This did very little to assure her however, and she looked at me with some concern.

The constant clicking of bicycle wheels pulled Mrs Denbrough from her fussing at my shoes, and back towards her oldest son who had arrived home, guiding his bike up and into the driveway. He had been muttering as he approached, but stalled, blinked at us, at  _ me,  _ curiously. A skinny, grubby little boy, damp up to his thighs and jeans slick with mud, I smiled pleasantly, noting the tinge of sadness in his expression. Cautiously, he drew up to us without speaking another word.

“Billy, how many times do I have to tell you to clean up once you've finished  _ playing _ ?!”

I saw those same sad eyes flit to the tray at my feet, saw his jaw tighten, fists tighten on the handles. I was pulled back to the shoddy little note of  THE BARRENS before smiling at their boy again. He watched me just as intently.

“S-s-s-sorry, mom.”

“Hello Billy,” I spoke, stepping forward to be free of any more of Mrs Denbrough’s fretting. “Agent [ **xxxxxxxxxxx** ]. Pleased to meet you.” I held out a hand, bike collapsing at his side as he reached out to tentatively shake it. “I'm here on behalf of the FBI.” I saw this register, the cogs turning, as he looked up at me, he bit his lip and simply nodded.

“Look at the  _ state of you  _ honestly! Everytime you go out, you come home covered in scrapes, bruises and  _ mud!  _ What on earth have you been doing?!”

“Just p-playing,” I noticed him wince as Mrs Denbrough came to knock most of the dried dirt from his clothes. Swipe the twigs and burrs from his shirt. Not that her hand was firm, in fact, rather the opposite.

“Looks like you had quite the adventure,” I stated. “Wouldn't mind one myself, if I knew where to start.”

Billy eyed me, nervous of the  **stranger** in the suit at his house. Looked back to the tray with the toy soldier floating face down. “Y-you’re here a-a-about Georgie?”

“You need to get in the bath right away Billy and change out of those  _ disgusting  _ clothes!”

I nodded at his question.

“Let’s get inside and get you cleaned up!” Mrs Denbrough continued, grabbing at the boy’s arm and hurrying him along. “I'm sorry about this,” she kept telling me as I tossed my cigarette and followed mother and son on through, avoiding the dirt that had been traipsed over the tiling from the soles of his ravaged sneakers. I smiled, and at that, so did he.

“The b-b-barrens,” he said, struggling over the noise of Mrs Denbrough.

“Get upstairs and run yourself a bath  _ now,  _ if your father sees you like this...” Mrs Denbrough was hurrying him up the staircase, “if you don't mind Agent [ **xxxxxxxxxx** ].”

“The barrens?” I asked, my eyes met with Billy’s through the wooden slats of the bannister.

“F-f-for your a-adventure,” he managed before they'd made it to the landing, hot taps already turning, water gushed into the tub, doors slammed and left me stranded, standing in the hallway, shut out and alone.

We left promptly after that, despite Mrs Denbrough’s offer of dinner. Billy never came back downstairs after his bath, and Mr Denbrough had already calmed and exhausted conversation with the sheriff We, instead, ate again at the sheriff’s favourite diner. By this point it was dusk and the breakfast menu had been replaced by a different assortment of greasy fried foods. I ordered a milkshake, a burger, even my fries were riddled with cheese. We didn't discuss much about the Denbrough home, we were hungry, and delved into the meals laid before us.

It was dark when we left, stuffed and content, squeezing into his police car, suddenly tired. I watched the sky, studded with thousands and thousands of glittering stars, that even the bright, smoking band of the milky way was somewhat visible to the naked eye. This was breathtakingly different to the city, where light pollution bled up and blotted out their beauty. It was peaceful at night, grasshoppers chirped and frogs croaked -- the roads long, winding and empty. The occasional lonesome car hummed by, the even rarer sight of a single dog-walker, strolled down the desolate streets. Derry was settling down in the dark, televisions flickered in every home, orange and yellow lights shone from every window. We passed through the town, through the residential areas, until the houses grew apart, between them bushes grew larger, trees more plentiful. We were en route to my motel, nestled nicely in the band of thick and thriving green that surrounded Derry, Maine.

“What the--  _ SHIT! _ ”

Before I could process what had the sheriff cursing, something -- someone -- had flashed in the road before the bonnet of the car, their face lit up stark white by the headlights. The sheriff had slammed on the brakes, swerved suddenly to avoid colliding into whoever had been standing in the middle of the country road. We spun, sickeningly, and I gripped at the dashboard, tried to steady my body as we skidded off and into the trees, jolting as the tires met with mud and finally stopped our spinning. The sheriff groaned in the seat, swore again and shook his head, “Why are they out after curfew?!” he threw himself unsteadily from the car.

I, too, scrambled from the semi-crushed vehicle, stepping back onto the tarmac, to the smell of burning rubber. The sheriff flashed his torch through the surrounding woodland. “You should be at home! I suggest you head back there  _ now. _ ” He spoke loudly into the answerless forest. Shaking his head he turned to me, breathless. “Fuckin’ kids. You alright?”

I stared onward, at the small figure I had clocked, half hidden in the shadow of the woods, stood silently, unmoving as they watched us. The little light of the night danced off his wet and yellow raincoat. Peering from beneath it's heavy hood. “It's George Denbrough…” I said absently, and the sheriff whipped around with his torch. Another flash of his pale, squinting face, he raised little hands to his big round eyes and darted back into the trees.

“What the hell?!” the sheriff whispered.

I ran. Groped for the torch at my belt and dove, determined, into the forest’s edge. That face had been following me all day, from the family photos all over the Denbrough home. It couldn't be little George, I was certain, from the length of his absence, to the very nature of this case, George Denbrough was dead. But that had been the boy, of that I was also certain.  **It** was.  **It** was.  **It** was. I thundered through the undergrowth, ankles scratched and stripped by thorns and snapping vines. I hurried blindly through the thicket, charging into the single bright beam I kept pointed at the dusty dark ahead.

“George! Georgie! George Denbrough!” I could hear the sheriff yelling from somewhere off in the distance, loud in the raging silence. “Agent [ **xxxxxxxxxx** ]!”

I had wound down to the shallow stream, slipping as the land slid away from underneath. Shoes sodden, the hem of my trousers  _ soaked,  _ I continued my search, all the while I could still hear the sheriff off in the distance, calling our names, over and over.

“AGENT [ **XXXXXXXXXX** ]! GEORGIE!”

I saw him, the boy, surging through the water and into the night. His yellow jacket made him visible, wet and slick and lit up by moonlight. He was some distance from me, but I caught him in again in the strong ray of light I held on him like a stage spotlight. I know I’ll sound deluded -- but he wasn't even  _ running _ . His arms were rigid as he moved through the water, his legs appeared lax through the rippling, bubbling of the stream. I carried on, as quick as I could through the water, adamant in catching up with our encounter.

“GEOOOORGIE! AGENT [ **XXXXXXXXXX** ] CAN YOU SEE ANYTHING?!”

The boy disappeared from my sight, simply vanished from the beam. It wasn't until I reached the entrance of the sewers, I realised the boy must have made a turn through the tunnel systems beyond. I cast my light down the seemingly endless blackness, the vast and empty, echoing void. Far larger than the the spout I’d been shown previously, this was a big blot in the night -- swallowed the light and continued on and on and on, that the light from my torch couldn't seem to even reach the end. I was tired, I admit. But coherent,  _ sane,  _ absolutely. It was there, down in the deep, I saw the same two -- those exact same -- eyes of the night before staring back at me, glinting, unblinking. The amber yellow of  _ warning.  _ Something  _ scuttled _ , moved with such a quickness, I stumbled from the mouth of the sewer, I heard a low and vibrating grumble, the light of my torch ricocheted, caught the tall figure  _ rise _ from the watery depths. A clicking, a cracking --

“Agent [ **xxxxxxxxxx** ]! There you are!” A hand gripped my shoulder hard, and dropping my torch, I gasped, it sloshed at our ankles -- looking back to the tunnel, whoever they were, whatever **it** was, **it** had gone. 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed [ **xxxxxxxxx** ]! What started as a small project here, has most likely turned into a slow build with a lot of plot. Please leave your thoughts and enjoy! Much love [ **xxxxxxxxx** ]

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic is purely experimental in style and subject. Having enjoyed the movie I wanted to write something more horror-orientated.  
> Hope you enjoy the ride, things are about to get _real weird_ in here. [ **xxxxxxxxxinformationwithheldxxxxxxxx** ]


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